


Flicker

by teh_gelfling



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Attack on Praxus, Gen, Unnamed OC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:44:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teh_gelfling/pseuds/teh_gelfling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Kinda stream of consciousness from a dying mech. Might be a little disjointed.</p><p>If you feel like it, leave a comment or critique. I love knowing what my readers like and don't like about my stories.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Flicker

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda stream of consciousness from a dying mech. Might be a little disjointed.
> 
> If you feel like it, leave a comment or critique. I love knowing what my readers like and don't like about my stories.

Gone, gone. Everything's gone.  
  
All the mechs.  
  
Everyone.  
  
Well, all the _sparks_ are gone.  
  
There are still pieces. A helm here, a sensor panel there.  
  
And here is a full frame. But there's still a spark here. Because it's me.  
  
Not for long, though. There's something stuck in my spark. It's sharp, I think. Or it was.  
  
Maybe. Everything happened so fast.  
  
Crystal shards glitter around me in the light of fires.  
  
So pretty.  
  
They'll never sing again. Never grow or glow that beautiful soft blue. All their light is gone. They're dead, just like the rest of Praxus.  
  
The threat alert went out a mere breem before we were hit. Enforcer stations were targeted with extreme prejudice, as were the Aeries where the flight-frames resided. Within a groon, Praxus was defenceless.  
  
The Spires fell next. Then the education centres and research facilities. The residential sections. The Artisans' Quarter and Merchant District.  
  
The Helix Gardens.  
  
We were neutral. We had no quarrel with either the Decepticons or the Autobots. We were Praxus.  
  
Perhaps that very neutrality was what provoked the attack?  
  
Shadows on the edge of my vision. Won't be long now.  
  
I still can't see why Megatron attacked us. He claims to want equality for all of Cybertron. To do away with caste.  
  
Praxus has – had – no caste system. We had done away with that when we declared sovereignty. All of our citizens were cared for. All had access to education.  
  
A sparked mech was usually created for a specific purpose. Kindled mechs typically followed in their creators' footsteps. If either had a desire to try something else, however, they were not simply allowed, but _encouraged_ to do it.  
  
Ah. There goes my sight.  
  
Pity. The reflections of the fires off of the single Spire left standing were mesmerising. I should have liked to watch as I fade.  
  
I can still hear, though. It's pretty much all that's left to me.  
  
Not that there's much to hear. The crackle of fire, the occasional roar when another building falls. I myself am in very little danger from the fires, as the Helix crystals in the Gardens don't burn.  
  
… They are very sharp when they shatter, though. I'd put credits on the notion that that's what is in my spark.  
  
I do so love the Gardens.  
  
Yes, even now, even with them destroyed around me, they are peaceful.  
  
I have loved this particular garden since it was started. It is one of the oldest here. As am I.  
  
The dissonant chime of falling crystal rings in my audials. Ah, the songs this garden used to sing! Symphonies of light and sound, never the same twice. Each a unique work of art.  
  
A crunch, followed by the sound of more falling crystal, floats to me from off to my … well, honestly, I don't know. My directional systems seem to be offline now. Another crunch, rhythmic like footsteps.  
  
A sharp shout tells me that's exactly what they are.  
  
Sounds like Iaconian Standard, but there's a faint Praxian accent in it.  
  
Another voice answers, also in Iacon Standard, and with a heavier Praxian accent.  
  
“Oh, Primus,” the first voice whispers, and its bearer must be close, as it is clear as crystal.  
  
Ha ha. Crystal. None of these crystals are clear any more. Clarity vanishes when the light is gone.  
  
Hmm... Sounds like a proverb.  
  
A crunch and skidding sound, then a quiet cry of anguish.  
  
“Do something!” the second voice demanded, and oh, I know this one. The timbre, the tone, as familiar to me as this garden.  
  
It should be. I created them both.  
  
My youngest. Artisan like me, turned Enforcer, and talented at both. Possibly a better Enforcer, if truth be told. Hand-picked to work for the Prime.  
  
I could not have been more proud.  
  
Ah, but for him to see me so...  
  
I would not wish that pain on anyone.  
  
My creation pleads with his companion to save me. But there is nothing anyone can do.  
  
I am dying.  
  
I know this and have made my peace with it. My life has been a long one, even by our standards, and fulfilling. I've borne and raised many sparklings. Surrendered many back to Primus, too. My work is valued. What more could a mech ask for?  
  
Perhaps a less gruesome death? Although I really have no idea if it is truly such. I don't know exactly what the damage to my frame is, aside from the likely crystal shard in my spark.  
  
I still wish my creation didn't have to see me this way.  
  
His attention turns from his companion to me. He pleads for me to stay. Tells me that Ratchet can repair me. I have to assume that is his companion from the protests. I wonder if he is a medic or simply a first responder.  
  
If the latter, it is obvious that there is nothing he could do to save me. If the former, I am injured far more grievously than I had thought. Praxian medics are the best on Cybertron. I have watched them pull damaged sparks back from the Well, even when all hope seemed lost. They work miracles.  
  
If this is the case, I am indeed surprised that I am still amongst the living.  
  
There is a pulling sensation in my spark, then a rapid drain of what little energy I have. My awareness instinctively contracts to only my spark and the surrounding chamber. A vain attempt to save a fading life.  
  
As a result, I can no longer hear.  
  
I can feel things happening around and to my spark, though.  
  
I can feel the distress and anger of my sparkling, the desperation and frustration of his companion.  
  
I flicker.  
  
I try to project my sorrow to my sparkling. My gratitude to his companion. The peace I feel to both.  
  
Flicker.  
  
  
Fade.


End file.
